Authors: William Goldman
Control (40 page)
“
Like to propose a toast,
”
R.E.L. Beulah began; it was to have been a brief but flowery speech about the fact that there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind that God Almighty kept a special eye out for this great land of ours—but the brown-haired nurse
’
s arrival canceled all that
“
We can
’
t control him,
”
she said.
“
He
’
s getting out!
”
Trude moved remarkably quickly, considering the hour and the Scotch. He got out a key and unlocked a drawer in the bottom of his desk and took out the stun pellets, was already inserting them into the gun on his way out the door. He ran along the corridor and up the two flights of stairs until he reached Winslow
’
s floor.
The giant was stepping through the wreckage when Trude got there, and he shouted for Apple and Berry to get away but they went for Winslow like the good men they were.
He simply slapped them backhanded across the corridor. Then he saw Trude.
“
You fuckin
’
lied to me.
”
“
And I will again if I so desire.
”
“
Not anymore.
”
He started toward Trude now.
Trude raised the gun.
Billy Boy couldn
’
t believe it.
“
A toy?
’’
he said.
It was small. It held four pellets. One would do the job on an ordinary person. Trude hoped four were enough. Billy Boy was twenty feet away when he fired the first time, hitting the shoulder.
Billy Boy kept on coming.
The second pellet hit the thigh, as did the third.
“
I said
I’
d tear your arms off.
”
He reached toward Trude, five feet from him.
The fourth shot hit the neck and Billy Boy hit the floor like a water buffalo. He got to his knees, got almost to his feet before he fell again. He got almost to his knees a second time, before he made a final growling sound and toppled over sideways.
Trude moved to the wall to avoid fainting.
Beulah and Kilgore came up the stairs then. They stared at the silent behemoth.
“
I assume he
’
s not dead,
’’
Beulah said.
“
For all our benefits.
”
Trude shook his head.
“
Anesthetic mixture.
’’
“
How long will he be out for?
’’
Kilgore asked.
Trude muttered,
“
Many hours.
’’
“
Well, we won
’
t waste any time at least,
”
Beulah said.
“
You put him out when you regress him.
”
“
Not the same at all. It
’
s got to be natural. It
’
s no use trying a regression with any drugs in his system. We
’
ll just have to wait.
”
“
You
’
ve got a bigger problem than that, son.
”
Beulah pointed at the crumpled door.
“
It doesn
’
t appear to me that he
’
s very happy |n these surroundings. I don
’
t think you
’
ll have much luck getting him to regress again. You can
’
t use force on him, and you sure as hell can
’
t scare him into doing it.
”
“
Perhaps I can,
”
Trude
said.
Beulah shook his head.
“
Scare
him?
With what?
”
“
Not
‘
what,
’”
Trude
said.
“
Who
…
”
The Blues
As he crossed the street toward the fortune-telling parlor, Eric knew all was not as it should be. No logical reason: the light was on, the front room empty, neat enough. But Eric knew. Probably one of the many blessed side benefits of dealing with torment all day long; you learned not to let it take you by surprise.
He stopped in the sleet and studied the place. A dump, truly. If you were a real estate salesman and were trying to unload it,
dump
would be the best you could come up with. Eric rang the bell, not really expecting an answer. When none was forthcoming, he reached for the door, not expecting it to be locked. The handle turned. As he pushed his way quietly in, Eric took out his pistol, held it loosely in his right hand.
There was a curtain drawn across the doorway at the rear. Eric moved toward it slowly, reached it, quickly threw it aside.
Chaos.
Even though the room was dark, even though the only illumination came from the front, the fight marks were easily spotted, as were the droplets of blood.
It was then Eric heard the slow breathing.
He turned, studied the bathroom beyond. It too was dark, but as he moved closer, the breathing sound grew. It was coming from behind the shower curtain. The curtain was roughly drawn around the tub below. Eric took a breath, preparing himself. Frank had always had bad times when encountering the results of violence. Eric got through it by being prepared. He had seen more than enough grief in his years on the force, and he summoned old images, just a few, but enough to get him ready for whatever he might face; a butchered Harlem lady his first year up there, her
husband sitting beside her as she bled, muttering over and over
“
she wouldn
’
t lemme watch the Yankee game
”
—Eric brought her back now and the stoned-out teen-ager who had blown her own heart out with her father
’
s hunting rifle, only she had gotten confused as to which side held her heart, had guessed the right, and Eric had been the one to find her, bloody, weeping with humiliated pain—Eric brought her back too, so he was prepared as he threw back the shower curtain to see the Duchess, blind and dying.
He was not at all prepared, however, to see the dog.
It lay on its side, ripped open, its blood filling the bottom of the tub. It was a huge shepherd and the blood had matted its fur, and probably the Duchess was dead somewhere, but certainly the dog was dying right here.
Eric spun quickly, wondering what the hell he might be able to do to make the animal
’
s final minutes less horrid. He went fast to the back room and the small refrigerator, threw it open, looking for food. There was nothing but in the freezer compartment he found a pint of ice cream, grabbed it, pulled the lid off, took it back to the tub. He wedged out a hunk of vanilla, knelt, put the ice cream close to the dog
’
s tongue. The animal licked the cool vanilla tentatively once, then paused, then licked it again.
Eric knelt there for half a dozen more licks, till the dog was dead.
What was he into and who were these people and where did their power spring from? Dog killers and kidnappers and police force controllers—Eric washed his hands quickly in the sink, then returned to the back room. The place was small and he was skilled at searching, but this was different, because she had been blind. Not too many
National Geographies
lying around.
He really expected to find nothing, and nothing pretty much summed up the first few minutes. Then, in a closet, in a hat-box, he came across the notebook, filled with the strange practiced writing of the blind. Most of what he skimmed through made no sense to him. Then on a page alone he found the following:
Rosa Gonzales
(1687 Lexington)
Rosa Gonzales was Edith Mazursky
William Winslow
(Address unknown)
William Winslow was Theodore Duncan
Logically speaking, this didn
’
t make any great amount of sense to him either. He was not ready to stand up and deliver a two-hour explication. As he stared at the names, he wasn
’
t really positive what any of it meant.
But he knew it was gold …
Forty minutes later, Eric got out of a cab ill front of 1687 Lex, near 105th Street. A lone Puerto Rican stood on the steps of the old brownstone, smoking a joint, staring at the sky.
“
Looking for the super,
”
Eric said.
“
You mean the superintendent?
”
Eric couldn
’
t believe the way the guy talked. There was not a trace of accent. The voice was at the same time booming but controlled. And the articulation reminded him of Jesse Jackson out of Chicago—the big words were ail spoken as if hyphenated. Su-per-in-ten-dent.
“
That
’
s who I mean,
”
Eric said.
“
Is this en-quir-y of a pro-fes-sion-al nature or merely for the purposes of fra-ter-ni-za-tion?
”
“
It
’
s business,
”
Eric said. He looked at the guy closely now. Mid-twenties. Small but quick. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
“
The gentleman who fulfills that function here at 1687 is generally regarded as flawless of character. Im-pec-ca-ble.
”
He took another toke of marijuana.
“
I assume I
’
m addressing him now.
”
“
In-du-bi-ta-bly.
”
“
Answer a few questions?
”
“
Now
I’
m
assuming—that you
’
re an officer of the law; the question is, should I seek ver-i-fi-ca-tion?
”
“
Up to you.
”
“
Since I am innocent of any recent skul-dug-ger-y, you may in-ter-ro-gate at will, Gridley.
”
“
I love listening to you talk,
”
Eric couldn
’
t help saying.
“
I doubt you traveled to these hin-ter-lands to tell me that, but
thank you. I attend announcer
’
s school. I am awed at the power of the media to ed-u-cate, to el-e-vate, to en-ter-tain. Also, I don
’
t want to work in this shithole for the rest of my natural life.
”
He inhaled on the joint again, offered it to Eric.
Eric shook his head.
“
Heard of Rosa Gonzales?
”
r
“
Alas.
”
“
Tell me about her.
”
“
Major league pain in the ass; at least for me.
”
“
How so?
”
“
Weird. Crazy. Always having Visions;
’
always seeing
‘
aura
’
s
’
around people; super
‘
sensitive.
’
”
“
What
’
s wrong with that?
”
“
Her mother worked at some donut place near Port Authority. Weekends, she
’
d take Rosa down with her; that was good. When Rosa went to school, that was good too. But she was sick a whole lot and when her mother worked, she paid me to check in on Rosa, see if she was okay. Usually, when she saw me, Rosa would scream
‘
cause she could tell I didn
’
t like her from my
‘
aura.
’
Throw a hysterical fit if I came near. Sob kick and scream.
”
“
How old a person are we talking about?
”
“
Ten, maybe. She was small and skinny so she might have been twelve, but I don
’
t think so. Ten.
”
“
Why are you using the past tense?—isn
’
t she here anymore, has she moved?
”
“
In-du-bi-ta-bly. She
’
s dead.
”
Eric closed his eyes, took a long pause.
“
Of what?
”
“
The pre-va-lent opinion is she died of a truck.
”
Eric waited for the rest.
“
I already in-di-ca-ted Rosa was frail. Her mother used to carry her a lot. Late one night some hit-and-run guy blindsided the two of them. Several witnesses at-tes-ied to that.
”
“
This happen recently?
”
“
Within the last year,
”
“
Up in this area?
”
“
No. Downtown more. East 50
’
s I think. At the funeral, our con-sen-sus was you boys in blue didn
’
t work overtime truck hunting.
”
“
I never heard of the incident,
”
Eric said.
“
And it
’
s crazy that I didn
’
t.
”
“
If they
’
d been white, you would have.
”
“
There
’
s more to it than that.
”
“
You think so?
”
the superintendent asked.
“
In-du-bi-ta-bly,
”
Eric answered.